


Over His Majesty's Dead Body

by orphan_account



Category: Hot Fuzz (2007), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Epic Bromance x2, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As per usual, Sherlock's dragged the good doctor out into the middle of damn nowhere just to snoop around in someone's business to satisfy his curiosity. But when a very particular corpse shows up in the village, London's most beloved duo must learn to work in a quartet with Sergeant Butterman  and the renowned Nicholas Angel. When a rock meets a rock and an ex-soldier with more than his fair share of patience meets someone likely to challenge that, the struggle to work together becomes almost as difficult as the case itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Sandford

**Author's Note:**

> Ah! I've been wanting to do this for ages, and so I have. Apologies for the short first chapter. The second should be about the same length, then they'll get longer. This should be funny, if all goes well. The major character death is not one of the four main characters here, rest assured.

"A consultant?!"

"Well, yeah," Danny shrugged, kicking back in the dilapidated department-issued chair, the thud of his heavy feet landing on the desk enough to shake both pencil holders and paperweights. He hooked a thumb in his vest, crossing ankle-over-ankle as he shoved another forkful of coffee cake into his mouth. "Some twatty government bloke called and said that he was coming down for research. Apparently he's keen on all the NWA shit."

At least, that's what Danny had gathered from the shadowy voice speaking down to him through the receiver. Though there hadn't been any formal threat, even the slightly daft police officer picked up on the undertone of the speaker's words. "You are to accommodate and tolerate him to the fullest extent," the posh voice had said. The inferred "or else" remained unspoken. "He is more than a bit abrasive, but he's got a handler of sorts and I'm certain that your... _pal_ Mr. Angel will have no trouble with him, if his service record is anything to go by," the anonymous man had added. Danny had only blinked a few times before stuttering out some kind of recognition and listening to the line go dead.

"He's not coming here to question our methods of handling the situation, is he?" Nicholas blinked, arms crossed firmly over his vested chest. His fingers tapped upon each opposite elbow in an irritated gesture true to his nature, repressed and hardly evident. "Because I assured them that everything was handled in a manner of the closest adherence to protocol. The paperwork was crystal clear down to the slightest of details."

Of course, it was the exact truth. Nicholas Angel never half-arsed a thing in his life, and the more office-oriented tasks involved with police work were no exception. The service was life and life was with the service in Nicholas's eyes, the two constantly overlapping and bringing him equal fulfillment of both social, goal-oriented, and physical needs. Sure, the now quieted Sandford paled in comparison to busy, bustling London in terms of potential crime and arrest rates, but this place belonged to him now. He never could quite describe why the village had made its way into a soft spot in his heart, but the feeling persisted nonetheless.

And maybe, just maybe, he had a soft spot for the big, idiotic slob that lounged before him. In him he'd found both colleague and friend, someone who was neither intimidated by his bluntness nor ever tired of talking about the subjects that Nicholas was learned in. He also just happened to be someone who'd willingly give his life for the stony Londoner, which was something that couldn't help but be endearing.

"I dunno," the other still newly-appointed sergeant replied, words muffled by a mouthful of spongy, delectable dessert. "He's not an actual copper apparently, so I don't really know if he could actually _do_ anything if he thought we were wrong, you know."

"Fair point, but he could still be an informant for someone who _could_ , for this...'twatty government bloke,' as you so nicely phrased it." The stern-faced man grunted as still too-hot coffee scalded his tongue, surely rendering him basically tasteless for the next few hours. "I suppose that's the service, though. System of checks and balances to keep the percentage of mistrials down to a minimum. No criminal roams free due to a clerical or procedural error."

"Heh, yeah," Danny chuckled with a raised eyebrow, dropping the crumb decorated plate onto the desk. "But it's still a pain in my arse."

"Doing your job with the highest level of efficiency is a pain your arse?" Nicholas mirrored the glance, making no acknowledgement of the fact that he'd reached across to steal a bite of the small remainder of cake. It wasn't an indulgence if he didn't eat _all_ of it, right?

"No," Danny swallowed thickly, smiling widely, all teeth. "Twatty government blokes and their helper monkeys are."


	2. Prologue - London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock would do anything to get out of helping Mycroft. It just so happens that his personal interests lie here as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry for the long wait on a chapter, for anyone reading. I'll be more consistent once Winter Break gets started in a week or so. Happy reading!

"Sherlock, you cannot just-"

"Yes, I can. Have. Did. Will do again," Sherlock interrupted with a tight smile, half with the intent of actually making a point, and half for the fact that he knew it would drive John up the wall. Perhaps he'd burst in an explosion of rage one day and _actually_ dare to kill him, the detective thought. Oh, he hoped that he was wrong and that there was an afterlife, after all. It would be a shame to miss out on seeing if the good doctor could successfully cover up a murder. More likely he'd turn himself in, but Sherlock could wish for something more interesting - rotting in a ditch somewhere, perhaps, bottom of the Thames -  couldn't he?

"Alright fine," John huffed, pinching long-ago calloused fingers at the bridge of his nose. "You obviously _can_ steal a bloody corpse to use as some sick human puppet for bait's sake," he said, gruff tone evident of his seemingly now permanent state of being at his wit's end, "But you _shouldn't_. You aren't stupid, I know that you can see the ethical problems with that."

"They certainly aren't _my_ problems," Sherlock shrugged, drying his hands off on a questionably-colored hand towel. It really was almost not worth it having to waste away precious minutes scrubbing the smell of decay off of his hands. Almost.

"It'll be your problem when Lestrade or Donovan arrests you," John retorted pointedly, dusting off a white powder from the kitchen chair (only God and Sherlock knew what it was) before dropping himself into it.

"Lestrade wouldn't arrest me. Not without drugs, anyway," Sherlock snorted amusedly. He tossed the towel off in the general direction of the kitchen counter. "Donovan, perhaps. But I'm sure that Mycroft would have some input in the matter."

"Christ, you think you really are above the law," John murmured. He rubbed a hand across his aging face in frustration. Attempting to explain ethics or repercussions to Sherlock was like trying to teach a dog sign language: the subject could be as attentive as possible but, in the end, they had neither the equipment nor practical interest to pick up on it.

"Good, you're following now," Sherlock nodded with a genuine smile, a remark of condescension upon his tongue before being cut off by the shrill tone of his phone. With the eagerness of a child, he snatched up the device, grimacing as almost an instinctual reaction before tossing it back to the metal table with a clang. " _Mycroft_ ," he seethed.

"You do owe him one, remember?" John said as he grabbed the phone up for himself. "After the whole 'Did Sherlock actually take all of those people hostage in that restaurant?' debacle."

"They were free to leave at any time."

"The gun in your hand implied otherwise, idiot," John spoke, scrolling the message on screen. "He wants you to investigate one of his spies. Could be a case of espionage, apparently. That's interesting, isn't it?"

"Oh, god," Sherlock groaned, dropping his head with all of his usual flair and dramatics onto the table. "He wants me to do his leg work for him, the lazy pest." He assumed this position for some minutes as John rambled on trying to convince him to take the case, the other man not eager at all for Sherlock's soon-to-come bout of boredom and wall-shooting.

"No, we can't do it," Sherlock sat up suddenly, eyes wild with ideas, leaving John open-mouthed and mid sentence. "We're...doing research. For a case."

"Are we?" John arched an eyebrow.

"Yes, we are." The familiar smirk of mischief crawled back across Sherlock's features. John quite thought that was an odd thing to be comforted by, but he supposed he should be used to their reactions to each other being off kilter by now. "We're going Sandford."

"Sandford," John's face twisted up in thought. "What and where in the actual fuck is Sandford?"

"It's a village south of London," Sherlock murmured, already inspired with thought.

"A village," John repeated, rotating in his chair as he watched Sherlock stand and start to gather belongings. "Why are we going to a village?"

"Oh, John. It was fantastic," Sherlock spoke with enthusiasm. "Murder, conspiracy, cults," he sighed. "I wish I had been there."

"You're just doing this to get out Mycroft's case. There's no _actual_ reason we need to go," John said, although he stood to get his shoes on.

"Research, John. Always good," Sherlock smiled. "Text Mycroft and tell him, would you? We'll need a security clearance. I've heard the officer in charge down there has the leniency of the Great Wall."

"Oh, you'll get along charmingly," John muttered, words dripping with sarcasm as he typed out a message to the elder Holmes on the younger's mobile.

"Without a doubt."


End file.
